Archive of Our Own

I.

It’s not that Shane would ever give up sex with Ilya for anything less than life or death–and even then, he’d probably be lying if he said he wouldn’t have to flip a coin–but he thinks some of his favorite moments might be them together like this, curled up naked in bed together, everything soft and half-real. They’re sweaty in a way that’s probably going to be gross in approximately ten minutes, but right now it just feels like a shared achievement, both of them glistening and slick in the aftermath. Ilya’s hands are a warm, firm pressure against his sides and hips, long, soothing strokes. Shane half-smiles, face still crushed into the pillow, thinking about the way he’s seen people touch horses in movies. It’s not dissimilar, really, especially on nights when Ilya chases this kind of touch with firm “good game” pats, mostly just to be annoying, always managing to find the best place to maximize the thunk sound he gets from it. 

Tonight, though, isn’t one of those nights, not in this little snatched bubble of together after five weeks of separation, only the second time they’ve seen each other since their weeks at the cottage. 

He wonders, sometimes, how they used to survive being apart for so long without even texting regularly. These days, it feels like he starts missing Ilya the moment the door shuts, like a little piece of his heart goes along with him. He always forgets what a relief it is to be together until he realizes he feels like he can fully breathe again, until his shoulders twinge because the very sight of Ilya makes them relax enough to let him realize how tight they’d been. He doesn’t wish the missing on him, but he hopes Ilya feels the same way with him in the aftermath, hopes that he makes Ilya’s heart go “Oh, there you are” and go calm and content. 

When Ilya is doing things like he is now, pressing sweet, clumsy kisses across his shoulder, he thinks he does. 

“You missed me?” Ilya whispers in his ear, and Shane’s smile widens. He nudges Ilya back enough to turn, holding him in place and letting him settle back over him. 

“Maybe,” he teases. “Depends.” 

“On what?” Ilya says, smiling softly as he nuzzles into the palm Shane presses to his cheek, turning enough to press a kiss to his palm. 

“On if you missed me.” 

“Were you not here?” Ilya asks, faux-innocent. “I didn’t notice.” 

Shane gives him a reprimanding squeeze with his thighs, a silent reminder of the fact that he’s currently trapped and that Shane’s played hockey long enough to do some damage with his legs if he so chose. 

Annoyingly, Ilya just looks a little turned on by the demonstration, reaching down to hold the side of Shane’s leg and squeeze the muscle consideringly, the same way someone would test the firmness of a peach. 

“Asshole,” Shane says, not even bothering to avoid sounding fond. Ilya leans forward and kisses him, chaste at first and then slipping his tongue into his mouth. By the time he pulls back, Shane feels like he has the structural integrity of Jell-O. Ilya looks pleased at his work, brushing Shane’s hair back and then stroking the backs of his fingers along his cheekbone and the moving down, to rest his warm palm against the side of his neck. 

“I always miss you,” he says quietly. 

Humiliatingly, Shane’s stomach decides to pop the sweet moment by growling loudly enough that he feels his face go red. 

Ilya, though, just laughs, leaning in enough to kiss him once more before pushing himself upwards. 

“Come on,” he says, tapping at Shane’s hip twice, the gesture playfully hard but clearly affectionate, as he climbs off, “we can miss each other while eating.” 

*

At this point, he knows better than to walk in someone’s house and expect for there to be something for him to eat. The excuse of a performance diet makes it easier to decline without being rude, and he’s old friends with the protein bars he keeps in his bag, rotating the flavors only when he thinks he might puke if he has to eat one more of the current flavor, preserving the novelty by making each of them better by comparison than the one he’s gotten sick of. Jackie is pretty diligent about always keeping his food well away from any allergens–claiming when he said she didn’t need to go through all the trouble that poisoning the captain would threaten her dominance in the WAG hierarchy–but that situation is an exception, not the rule. 

Shane had expected there to be at least something for him in the fridge here, though. Ilya had seemed strangely pleased at the cottage to make him food, watching him with clear pleasure in a way that had led to more than one meal being interrupted for a blowjob intermission, Shane unable to resist and Ilya fully enthusiastic in encouraging him. He’s learned firsthand that Ilya isn’t one for strict adherence to recipes–something that had led to more than one “fight” that was more about just raising their voices at each other for fun than actual anger–but he had consulted Shane’s binder of recipes more than once, a copy of the one that his dad had given him when he moved out. 

What he’s not expecting, though, is to open the fridge and see tidy rows of meal preps labeled with allergy warnings. 

For a long moment, all he can do is stare at them, feeling for a moment like he’s somehow been transported back to his house in Montreal, even though he knows damn well that he’s at Ilya’s house in Boston. 

“Bell pepper is beating you at hide and seek?” Ilya teases, abandoning the snowpeas he’d been rinsing to come stand behind Shane, wrapping an arm around his stomach and kissing his neck before resting his chin over his shoulder. “I told you to bring your glasses.” 

“Yeah, because you wanted to fuck me in them,” Shane says absently, still wondering if he’s dreaming a little bit at allergy-friendly mealpreps being in Ilya’s fridge when he knows Ilya doesn’t have any allergies of his own. “Why do you have allergy warning labels on your mealpreps?” 

“Hm?” Ilya asks, having clearly distracted himself while holding Shane. Shane bumps heads with him gently to get him to focus up, needing to solve the mystery. 

“Your meal preps all have allergy warnings,” Shane says, pulling one forward and tapping his thumb against it for emphasis. “Why? Aren’t we cooking something?” That’s his best bet, at least, that Ilya had off-loaded cooking to Boston’s nutrition team in case they were too tired. Shane has to admit that it’s logical, but it seems more than a little like overkill, especially when they’re currently making dinner anyway. 

“Oh, no,” Ilya says. “You can have them if any sound good, but no. Those are not for tonight.” 

Well there goes Shane’s theory. 

“Did they give you someone else’s food?” He asks, his next guess. It’s a very strange coincidence that someone else would need the exact exclusions that are printed on the label, especially when he can see Rozanov printed above them, but he can see Ilya eating someone else’s mistake to be polite. 

“Ah, no,” Ilya says, and something in his tone has Shane craning his head to the side. “Come on,” he says, jostling Shane lightly, “you are the hungry one-” 

“Cottage rules,” Shane says flatly, studying what he can of Ilya’s face. 

Ilya lets out an annoyed breath, dropping his head forward, clearly not wanting to heed the agreement they both made that “cottage rules” means “cut the shit and just tell me the truth.” Finally, though, he huffs out one more breath and then turns his head to rest it on Shane’s shoulder but face him. 

“Nutrition team thinks I have a girlfriend with allergies.” 

Shane blinks. 

“You have a girlfriend?” 

“Shane.” 

“Oh.” Shane leans back against Ilya, resting a hand over his, thumb toying with Ilya’s idly. 

“Oh,” Ilya echoes, clearly teasing. 

“Why are you eating my diet?” Shane asks, still confused. 

“You want anaphylaxis from kissing me?” Ilya teases. “What? You are not getting enough attention?” 

“I’m not even here that often, though,” Shane says, and he wishes it didn’t hurt a little, having to say it out loud. 

“Hm,” Ilya hums, and Shane feels the movement when he shrugs. “But is easier, yes? If you do not have to worry about allergens when you are here?” 

Ridiculously, Shane feels his eyes sting a little at the way Ilya makes it sound like it’s just the logical move, like of course he would restrict his diet just because Shane has to restrict his. 

“You don’t have to do that, Ilya,” he says, and thank God his voice comes out even. “You don’t have to-” 

“This is my home, so is your home, too.” Ilya says, lifting his head enough to kiss Shane’s cheek. “You should be safe in your home, yes?” 

Shane doesn’t even know what to say to that. 

“Is really for me, too,” Ilya says, clearly teasing. “Much easier for planning if I know I’m not going to kill you with a fork that was not washed enough.” 

Shane laughs, craning his head enough to kiss Ilya. He reaches back, touching his cheek briefly. 

“I really love you,” he says, leaning enough to bump their foreheads together briefly. 

“I really love you, too,” Ilya says. “And my beautiful girlfriend, even though she cannot eat almonds or coconut or peanu-” 

“Okay, go fuck yourself,” Shane says with a grin, shrugging Ilya off with a little more elbow than is maybe strictly required. 

Maybe his very allergic girlfriend can console him about it later. 

II.

Shane and Ilya have a little game they play at NHL events, catching each other’s eye and playing a guessing game to see if they know what the other is thinking. 

It’s a game that started before they were anything at all really, their first round played years and years ago on a CCM set when a PA had a phone text notification that sounded like a duck’s quack. He and Ilya–back when he was still Rozanov, still nothing but a handsome stranger, still just a kid who didn’t yet know what a kid he was just like Shane didn’t, not until they were both men and could look back on it and laugh at themselves–had caught each other’s eyes the instant it had happened the first time as if they’d been directed to, an immediate exchange of “oh my God” that had transcended words. Repetition hadn’t made it less funny, and in fact, it had just gotten funnier with each new quack, not helping them when Ilya already caught a giggle fit he infected Shane with during their mock face-off. 

Shane had had enough fun that day that he hadn’t even looked at the craft services table he couldn’t touch, saved from feeling deprived by the power of a quack sound and the laugh he could see in Ilya Rozanov’s eyes. 

Tonight’s shared punchline is a man with a laugh that sounds uncannily like a donkey’s bray. 

Shane hasn’t even set eyes on the man, but he’s heard the laugh ringing out all night at random intervals. He must be signing some big checks to be able to laugh with that laugh that loud in a setting like this so Shane knows better than to make faces or comments about it, but he’d been excited when he first heard it after arriving here, purely for the thrill of knowing Ilya would be looking for him just like he would be looking for Ilya the second they were in a room together. He’d gotten lucky, Ilya arriving just as Donkey Man was letting out another round of laughter so loud Shane could swear it echoed, and the way Ilya’s head had all but snapped to look at him had been oddly warming, the immediacy of it, the way he experienced something funny and immediately wanted to share it with him. 

At a party where Shane can’t so much as pass Ilya a napkin without it being remarkable, he’ll take what he can get. 

He’s gotten more used to these events over time, more settled in mingling and chatting and saying things that don’t actually matter but are important to say anyway because he comes across as rude or cold or robotic if he doesn’t. 

(Which he has been informed of.) 

(Many times.) 

It’s still not comfortable, though, being hyper-aware of himself at every second, counting how many seconds of eye contact until he can look away, making himself emote more than he would naturally, making listening sounds because other people tend to find silence rude or unnerving. The deeper he gets into the night, the tighter it winds him, and the venue they’re in means no easy escapes, no convenient balconies or roof access or courtyards with fountains, just rooms that start to feel a little warmer and a little warmer and a little warmer until Shane feels a kind of hot that feels like fingers all over his skin, grating and annoying and requiring conscious effort to push aside. He pulls at his collar while trying to not make it obvious that he’s doing it, wondering if it’s the temperature making his throat feel scratchy. 

Or if the vegetables he’d grabbed off of the little snack table earlier so he could have something on a plate to carry around as a prop and then taken a bite of without thinking about it might have had consequences beyond the tiny celery string he’s felt trapped against his back molar all night, worrying it with his tongue repeatedly before realizing what he was doing and making himself stop so he wouldn’t accidentally make faces. 

Not here, he tells himself, trying to convince himself that there would have been no reason for any of his allergens to be near cut vegetables. He hadn’t even grabbed any near the dips. It had been perfectly innocent celery sticks and cherry tomatoes. Not here. It’s not happening. He’s too hot. That’s all. 

But the pep talk isn’t nearly as convincing as he would like it to be. 

He has a system for this–because of course he does–and he’d already picked his place earlier. The awards show years ago had taught him that bathrooms aren’t necessarily the best place to play the shittiest guessing game in the world called “Anxiety or Allergic Reaction?”, and he’s been choosier about his options since then. He’d already seen a utility closet earlier while looking for the bathroom here for non-freaking-the-fuck-out purposes, and a subtle press of the handle as he passed by had demonstrated that it was unlocked, perfect for what he’d hoped he wouldn’t need it for. 

“Excuse me,” he says, bowing out of the little circle he’d found himself in and leaving his half-empty glass of ginger ale at the edge of the bar, forcing each breath to come calm and even and steady, even though he can feel his heart rate increase. Not a reaction, he tells himself. Just too much time playing pretend. 

He hears Donkey Bray Dude going off again but doesn’t have the mental bandwidth to fully appreciate it, let alone look for Ilya to share it with. 

Not happening, he tells himself. Just have to calm down. It’s not happening. 

Still, it’s a relief when he finally makes it to the door and finds it still blessedly unlocked. 

*

He hasn’t yet decided which kind of shitty his evening is going to end up as when there is suddenly another person in his hiding spot, startling him enough that it’s a good thing the case is still on his Auvi-Q or he might have ended up with a shot of epinephrine whether he needed it or not. 

As a result, he’s maybe not as delighted to see his boyfriend as he might be otherwise. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He asks, genuinely confused. 

“Sneaking off to have sex with my boyfriend?” Ilya offers dryly, eyebrows raised as he leans back against the door. “But now he is just sitting on a filthy closet flo-” He apparently notices what Shane is holding, all easy nonchalance gone in an instant. “You are having a reaction?” 

“Uh,” Shane says, intelligently, not sure how to explain this little routine of his. Before he can find it, Ilya is on one knee next to him, reaching for his Auvi-Q. 

“Here, let me-” 

Shane pulls it back. 

“I can do it,” he says, a little annoyed without really knowing why. He’d let Ilya experiment with an expired epipen and an orange at the cottage because he’d asked, but he hadn’t intended it as a “hey, take care of this for me moving forward” situation. 

“So then do it,” Ilya says, seeming inordinately stressed as the person who isn’t deciding if they may or may not be having a potentially-life-threatening reaction right now. Ilya reaches for his pocket. “I can call-” 

Now it’s Shane’s turn to get grabby, and he snatches the phone out of his hand with maybe a little more force than the task should actually acquire. 

“I don’t know if I’m having a reaction or not yet, okay?” He confesses, feeling his ears getting hot with the embarrassment of having to admit it. “Just fucking-fucking chill out a second.” 

“How do you not know if you are having reaction?” Ilya demands. 

Shane directs his answer to his tie instead of his face. 

“Sometimes they feel the same as panic attacks at the start, alright? I can’t always tell right away.” He braces himself, knowing it’s such a stupid thing to say because it’s such a stupid thing to even happen. 

Fuck celery sticks to hell, frankly. 

“You are okay?” Ilya asks, and at that Shane does look at his face. Even without consciously deciding what expression to make, he can tell Ilya understands the “if I knew that, I wouldn’t be in a fucking closet right now” that he’s thinking by the apologetic tilt of his head he gets in response. 

“Listen, you can go ba-what are you doing?” He resists for a second when he’s shuffled to one side, Ilya forcing space against the wall for himself and squishing Shane in the process because this is a tiny ass utility closet and not the massive sectional in Ilya’s living room. 

“Sitting on a disgusting floor with you until we know if you’re dying or not,” Ilya says, clearly unimpressed by the question. “Give me my phone back. I at least want to play games while we wait.” 

Shane obeys mostly because he’s been confused into operating on autopilot. 

“I have my Auvi-Q,” he says, still thrown. “I’m good if it is a reaction. You can go back to the party.” 

“And then get to make boring smalltalk while wondering if my boyfriend is maybe dying in a closet, which-Hollander, please, you cannot make this joke in your obituary. No one would even understand the punchline.” 

“It’s not a joke,” Shane says, a little sharper than he means because while he’s usually happy to chirp Ilya to hell and back, he’s still not sure if tonight needs to end in cold water on his face or a hospital bed. 

Immediately, Ilya softens, laying his phone facedown against his thigh and then using his now-free hand to take Shane’s, lacing their fingers together and squeezing lightly. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“It’s fine.” Really, the immediate apology just makes him feel like the asshole here, which is annoying but in a way that’s not Ilya’s fault. “Seriously, though, you don’t have to sit in this nasty ass closet with me. You can go back. Those spinach things looked pretty good. Did you try any yet?” 

“Almonds,” Ilya says, leaning his head back against the wall, apparently not caring that it looks approximately as suspect as the floor. Given what Shane now knows his curl routine looks like, this seems like a wild miscalculation on his part, but he’ll let Ilya decide what risks he wants to take with his hair.

“How do you know that?” 

“I asked,” he says with a shrug. “The cheese was supposed to be okay, and then they put fucking walnuts next to it.” He sounds disgusted about this in a way that Shane can’t help but smile at. “Really, is like no one thinks of cross-contam-” 

He cuts himself off when Shane can’t contain his laughter. 

“What?” He demands, but his bluff at being annoyed is weak, and Shane can see the amusement underneath. “You think this is funny? I am hungry all night and can only have champagne-” 

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s such a tragedy for you.” 

“-and you laugh at my pain? You should sympathize, Hollander. You’re hungry, too.” 

“Not really,” Shane says, feeling a little smug about it. “Gotta eat beforehand, dude.” 

“Well, dude,” Ilya says, emphasizing the word because he hates when Shane uses it on him (which is the primary reason Shane uses it on him), “some of us are still learning. You are very bad teacher for this. You did not give me any tips or anything.” 

Shane huffs a laugh and drops his head to rest against his shoulder. 

“You can just eat the food, Ilya,” he says. “Seriously, I don’t mind. You can eat it and tell me about it later so I know what I missed out on.” 

“Mmm,” Ilya says, rubbing a thumb along the sensitive skin of his inner wrist in a way that gives him goosebumps, “I would rather kiss you later.” 

Shane presses his cheek against him a little tighter. 

“We also can talk about what a bad idea it is to hide in a secret place when you are having a medical problem,” Ilya says dryly. 

Shane kicks his ankle lightly. 

“No, I am serious. What is the logic here, Hollander? ‘Oh, I am maybe about to pass out or something and need someone to call an ambulance for me. I know, I will hide away and make sure no one can find me.’ Apparently it is not just your strategy in games that is shit.” 

“Remind me,” Shane says with feigned innocence, “who holds the most Stanley Cups here?” 

“Watch it,” Ilya says without heat, “or I will go eat all of the peanuts in this entire building and let you die from a blowjob later.” 

“Hell of a way to go.” 

Ilya snorts. For a moment, they just sit in the quiet together, the sound of the event a distant hum. 

Until he picks up the faintest echo of Donkey Bray Dude. 

He and Ilya both laugh. 

“Jesus,” Ilya says, and Shane can hear the smile in his voice, “you know he is married, yes? I saw the ring. Can you imagine that in your house all the time?” 

“I don’t know,” Shane says, grinning. “Any diamonds in the ring? Maybe she makes good money to put up with it.” 

Ilya tsks. 

“You assume he is married to a woman? My boyfriend is homophobic. Wow. You think you know a person.” 

“I’ll get my mom to draft an Instagram apology later,” Shane says, closing his eyes for a moment. He’s starting to feel calmer now, which usually happens around Ilya, and with the benefit of that, he’s starting to feel safe in saying it was just anxiety. 

Which is as relieving as it is embarrassing. 

“You are feeling better?” Ilya asks, as if reading his mind. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I just got too warm or something and then started freaking myself out.” 

Despite the reassurance, Ilya doesn’t move to get up yet, just stays where he is, letting Shane lean against him. 

“This is what you do?” He asks after a moment. “When you feel sick at things? You go and hide?” 

“It’s not hiding,” Shane objects immediately. 

“You go find somewhere people cannot see you?” Ilya corrects, apparently deciding to pick his fights. 

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I’d rather not give TMZ something to run, you know? Just easier to find somewhere private just in case, especially if I don’t actually know if it’s a reaction or not.” He can tell Ilya isn’t happy about this answer. “It’s seriously fine, Ilya. I’ve been doing this for years. It’s not-” 

“And if I didn’t see you leave,” Ilya says, “you would just be sitting in a dark closet by yourself waiting to find out if you needed to stab yourself in the thigh or not.” 

Well when he says it dramatically like that…

“I told you back at the cottage,” Shane says, not wanting to fight, but feeling the same little wriggle in his stomach, that same little beat of too much, too much, too much inside of him, “this is always going to be something I have to think about.” 

He feels Ilya kiss his head. 

“I am sorry,” he says. “I am not trying to fight. I just don’t like the idea of you not being okay and me not knowing, even when I am in the same place as you.” 

That Shane can understand. He wouldn’t like it if their positions were reversed, after all, if he thought Ilya was potentially in danger and he was in the next room over drinking champagne and making smalltalk. He sees Ilya go somewhere in his head sometimes, sees him retreat inwards, sees him check out even if his body is still there, going so deep inside that he doesn’t even catch Shane’s eye for a bit even when something funny happens, too far away for Shane to reach him. 

But it’s also not like he can just go up and grab Ilya by the arm and pull him away from the party, not without inviting speculation and a whisper storm. He doesn’t have that right, doesn’t have that privilege, to potentially need Ilya or be needed by Ilya and be able to just pull him away. 

It’s moments like these that Shane feels the weight of their secret like a physical thing. 

“I can text you,” he offers, little enough but all he has to offer. “If we’re at a party or something and I need to leave for a bit. I can text and let you know.” 

“You can also do this for closet sex,” Ilya says. “Just to be clear. That is also on the tabl-” 

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Shane says fondly. 

“As if you weren’t thinking it,” Ilya scoffs. 

Shane chooses not to respond. 

*

“Still want dinner from that cafe place after?” Ilya asks, when he finally gets up to leave. 

“I don’t know if they’re going to still be open this late,” Shane says, not bothering to get up yet, knowing he needs to give it a few minutes before he can follow. “Seriously, you can go ahead and eat here if you want.” 

“I don’t want,” Ilya says easily. “Eh, we will figure it out, yes? Maybe we just get things from the grocery store. You can feed me grapes. Will be very romantic.” 

Shane rolls his eyes but accepts the kiss his chin is tilted up for. 

“First blowjob says we hear donkey man laugh ten more times before this is over,” Ilya offers. 

“I say fifteen,” Shane counters, grinning when Ilya offers him a handshake. 

He watches Ilya go, wishing this thing between them didn’t always end in one of them having to watch the other walk away. 

III. 

“‘No, Ilya,’” Ilya mocks in a wildly high pitched voice that doesn’t even remotely sound like him, “‘I don’t need my glasses. Is fine I cannot read things without getting headache.’” 

Shane, busy squinting at some wildly tiny font on a picture of a menu that someone helpfully posted to their review on Google but unhelpfully didn’t make sure wasn’t so fucking blurry, just flips him off. 

“You should just keep a pair here,” Ilya persists, and Shane gives him a look, knowing damn well that his motives aren’t completely pure, not when Ilya has already requested fucking him in his glasses more than once. Ilya, clearly reading the accusation, just smiles, entirely unapologetic. He turns away to grab Shane another ginger ale out of the fridge, and the angle gives Shane an excellent view of the bruise across his cheekbone that he’s sporting. He circles the counter to put the ginger ale down in front of Shane and then lean over him in a way that would crush someone not built to be strong enough to play a contact sport professionally. “Here, give,” he demands, trying to take the phone out of Shane’s hand. 

Shane stretches forward as far as he can get, protecting it from confiscation. 

“You are being ridiculous,” Ilya says. “I’m hungry, Hollander,” he says, flirting at the edge of a whine in a way Shane knows is supposed to be silly. “I get home from roadie from hell, and now you starve me.” 

Shane deliberately doesn’t point out that Ilya contributed to his own starvation by talking about this restaurant weeks ago, praising the food enough that Shane had taken a mental note of it and brought it up as an option tonight, when the few seconds he’d gotten to observe Ilya in–before he’d registered Shane’s surprise presence and first startled and then grinned–had made Ilya look tired in a way Shane rarely sees from him. It’s something he’d noticed while watching the game Ilya had gotten his current bruise from, how off Ilya had seemed, not in a way that many other people would notice but in a way that Shane can, even if he can’t necessarily put words to it. He’d just looked wrong, somehow, not as present in himself as he usually is. He’d played fine because he does in fact have the skill that justifies his confidence and swagger, but Shane had seen it, the lack of flourish in his skating, the way he’d chirped enough to have someone take a swing at him but had let it drop after that instead of running his mouth with a grin that said provoking people is as much a part of the game for him as getting pucks in nets. 

This is among the most reckless things he’s ever done, probably, buying a plane ticket to fly down to Boston right after a game to steal 48 hours before he has to be gone again and not even clearing it with Ilya before he did so, but he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, how Ilya had just looked…wrong. 

How Shane had wanted to be with him in more than a text message or a video call. 

“Come on,” Ilya says, resting hands on his hips and jostling him slightly. “Give. Before we both starve to death.” 

“I mean, my boyfriend keeps a whole snack cabinet for me at his house,” Shane teases. “So speak for yourself. I’m set for a while.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says, and Shane feels it when he smiles, pressing it to his cheek. “So spoiled. He must love you very much.” 

“I love him, too,” Shane says, leaning his head enough to press his cheek to Ilya’s, glad it’s on his unbruised side. He sighs as if he’s about to concede to something unreasonable before he hands his phone over. “Here, let me know if it looks like it’s going to kill me or not.” 

“We can order somewhere else,” Ilya says, even as he takes the phone. “Or we can cook here. I have something, probably.” 

“Yeah, fifty thousand condiments and some really suspicious-looking celery,” Shane says dryly. 

“Hm,” Ilya says, zooming in on the photo on the phone and half-choking Shane when he brings his arm around in front of him to hold the phone with his other hand while he does. “I am forgetting why I buy snacks with no peanuts suddenly. Is definitely not for mouthy ungrateful people who break into my house.” 

Shane rolls his eyes and opens his ginger ale, pointedly bumping the cold aluminum against Ilya’s forearm until he’s released enough to take a sip. 

*

To be safe, Shane does get the restaurant to read over their ingredients and also make a note of his allergies when he places the order on the phone, and he graciously lets Ilya brag on his own taste in places to eat when the food is indeed really good, even delivered with the boxes taped up with ALLERGY written on them in a promising sign that he’s not about to be in for an unpleasant surprise on this surprise visit. 

“I’m still not convinced this isn’t going to kill me,” he observes, offering Ilya more of his pasta and accepting a chunk of his burger in exchange. 

“If you die before finishing, I will eat your leftovers in your honor,” Ilya says dryly. “Even though you said no to extra cheese like a psychopath.” 

“Poor baby,” Shane says dryly, twirling up another bite and trying to subtly observe Ilya from the corner of his eye instead of the movie that’s playing on the TV. He looks lighter, he’s relieved to see, or at least a little bit more back in himself. He has a foot tucked between Shane’s hip and the back of the couch, and despite Shane’s initial suspicion that it was the first step in being annoying, he’s behaved himself while they’ve eaten, like he just wanted to be touching Shane somehow. 

It’s made Shane a little more certain in his decision to be here without asking first. He doesn’t know if it’s actually helpful or not, turning up out of nowhere and taking advantage of having a key for the first time since he got it, but when running it past Rose, she’d asked if he would be excited if his boyfriend turned up out of nowhere. The answer, kind of to his own surprise, had been yes. 

It’s something he first felt at the cottage, the way being with Ilya feels like being by himself. He doesn’t really know how to say it–the reason he hasn’t even tried, even though he thinks maybe Ilya would like to hear it–but he doesn’t feel an internal clock ticking in a countdown, not the way he does with most other people. Protective as he is of his time by himself, the stretches of time he finds to reset and recover, it feels like Ilya’s the exception, somehow, like Ilya’s just a part of him, like something about their years together has twined them together like vines do, making them pieces of each other. He’s not sure if it’s the same for Ilya or not, if Shane just being here makes him feel the same sense of calm. 

He hopes so. 

*

After dinner, they stay on the couch, takeout containers discarded on the coffee table. He’d thought at first when Ilya crawled over him that they were going to progress to the sex portion of the night their time together always includes, but despite kissing him like he was chasing the taste of the pasta still in his mouth, Ilya hadn’t moved to escalate, pulling back only to settle down over him, to the side enough that he’s not resting right on Shane’s full stomach but still covering him on one side, between Shane and the sofa, head on his shoulder. Shane hadn’t protested, just reached over enough to grab another cushion to rest behind his back and then tugged down the throw blanket he’d bought because Ilya left to his own devices keeps his house hot enough that he doesn’t even need to wear a shirt, one thing that Shane had put his foot down about when ten minutes inside of Ilya’s terrarium enclosure had made him overly warm and cranky. He knows Ilya still likes living lizard-style when Shane’s not here, but he hadn’t hesitated before setting the thermostat to a liveable temperature when he got here, and if Ilya has any complaints about having to wear a shirt for once, Shane hopes the excuse of cuddling up together under a blanket is enough repayment for his suffering. 

From the way Ilya is a heavy, slack weight against him, he thinks it might be. 

*

They don’t fuck that night. 

Ilya starts to initiate in the shower, teasing a soapy hand across his stomach, but Shane can tell his heart isn’t in it, and he stops him, following it up with a kiss to soothe any sting. 

“No?” Ilya had asked against his mouth. 

“Mm,” Shane had hummed, sneaking another quick kiss in. “I’m tired.” 

He has never in his life been too tired to fuck Ilya Rozanov, but it wouldn’t feel right tonight, not when he can tell Ilya’s head is somewhere else. It’s honestly a little exciting, strangely, the idea of being together for a night and not having to have sex because they don’t know when they’ll have another chance. It feels like…growth, maybe, the idea that a night of just each other’s company can be enough. 

He waits to actually broach the thing that brought him here until they’re in bed together. Ilya usually prefers Shane curled up and asleep on his shoulder–at least partially, Shane suspects, because he likes to complain about his arm going numb so he can get appreciation for his pain and great suffering–but tonight he’d rolled over until he was half on top, face tucked into the space between Shane’s neck and the mattress. It’s a little ticklish, honestly, Ilya’s breath against his skin so close, but he doesn’t complain, just strokes gentle fingers in lazy circles across his back. 

“Are you okay?” He asks softly, quietly enough to hopefully not pop the peace of Ilya’s dark bedroom. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, voice muffled by the way his face is still buried. “No, probably no.” He adds soon after. “Maybe…in the middle.” 

“You want to talk about it?” Shane asks, stopping the steady motion of his fingers only to move his hand up enough to sink them through Ilya’s curls instead. 

“Not really,” Ilya says. “Is…anniversary. Of my mother’s death. Tomorrow.” 

Shane closes his eyes as Ilya tucks his face against him just a little tighter. 

He doesn’t know what to say in response to that, doesn’t know what words even begin to touch the enormity of something like that, and this doesn’t seem like a situation in which he can count on Ilya to lead him. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Ilya says, so quietly that Shane almost misses it. 

Shane holds him a little bit tighter.

*

Shane leaves a day and a night later, his bag full of snacks they’re both pretending he didn’t see Ilya put in there because his boyfriend has a strange fixation on him being hungry in a way that’s both sweet and also a little funny, like Ilya is preparing to send him off to war and not to about four hours before he’s back in Montreal. 

Ilya doesn’t walk him out because there are neighbors outside, and Shane makes sure to keep his hood up. He feels eyes on him, though, and when he glances back, he sees Ilya at a window watching him. It makes Shane’s heart hurt a little, knowing how many days are standing between them being together again, knowing two days aren’t enough for a hurt like the anniversary of losing a mom but also knowing two days are all he has to offer. When he shifts slightly as he buckles in, he hears the rustle of the snacks in his bag. He wonders if it’s Ilya’s way of handling them having to be apart, sending Shane off with a reminder that someone loves him, that someone thinks about him when he isn’t there, that someone wants to make sure he doesn’t get hungry at an airport. 

On a moment of total, stupid, reckless impulse, he glances around to make sure no one including the driver is looking at him and makes a heart with his hands. The gesture feels clumsy when he does it–he thinks it might be the first time he’s ever done it, actually–and more than a little stupid, but he catches the flash of white of Ilya’s smile. 

As the car pulls away, he gets a pair of heart hands back, even though he knows Ilya’s going to make fun of him for it later. 

He slips his hand into his bag enough to rest over the snacks there, feeling like he’s leaving a piece of himself behind. 

IV.

At this point in the arrangement, Shane knows the drill for barbeques at the Pike residence. 

He knows it’s a little irregular, him as captain not hosting, but everyone seems to take the absence of a WAG of his own as reason enough for him to offload it to someone else, an assumption that he hasn’t encouraged but also hasn’t contradicted. He’s offered before when he’s felt especially guilty about putting a burden on Jackie, but he can’t deny that it does make his life easier, not having to open up his home and have food brought inside of it that might or might not be safe for him. He’d done it once, back when he first became captain, and the stress of his home feeling contaminated for weeks after had been enough to almost make him spiral out about it, so he’s tried to make up for it by arriving early enough to help set up and stay late to help clean up after and calls it even, gifting Jackie a certificate each year for a facial every Christmas and a massage on her birthday per his mom’s suggestion when he’d brought up wanting to thank her. Jackie does teasingly say it gives her street cred with the other WAGs, being queen of the get-togethers, and Shane chooses to take her at her word, especially when she also takes on the extra effort of always making things that are safe for him, leaving them in the kitchen with the cover of being compliant with the diet he always uses as an excuse. 

Which works until someone either gets curious or greedy enough to investigate. 

Even knowing it's irrational, he can't help but be annoyed as he surveys the scoops taken out of the three trays of food that were left in the kitchen, knowing damn well that it means someone other than Jackie or Hayden has touched them since they were made. He surveys the pasta salad with special irritation, knowing Jackie had even gotten the olives he likes for it just for him and even used the protein pasta he likes. All of the food set out for everyone else, and someone had to venture in here and investigate his? He doesn't even know if they used the right utensils, doesn’t know if they stirred through before they took the scoops, doesn't know if it's all now contaminated or not, doesn’t know if he can-

He makes himself take a breath. 

He does know it's now not safe to eat, not without having to make a scene by finally fessing up to his allergies to everyone, find out who was in here, and then having to trust that they both remember correctly and are telling the truth.

Even for Jackie's food, it's not worth it.

Forcing himself to be calm and tell himself he doesn’t care, he takes each of the trays out to the main table of food, nudging things over to make space. He knows they at least won’t go to waste, not with what a good cook Jackie is. 

He grabs another ginger ale and makes himself go mingle. 

*

If the conversations around him go quiet in a way they didn’t used to when he drifts between circles of people, he tells himself firmly that it’s a figment of his imagination caused by low blood sugar. 

*

“Hey, you.” 

He glances up at Jackie’s voice, not bothering to get up from his hiding place in Hayden’s trophy room, where he’d retreated for a brief breather after a conversation had inexplicably turned to how great sex with women is in a move that hadn’t been remotely subtle in the “get lost” it was meant to be. He’d been looking over the line of the kids’ trophies–spelling bees, field day ribbons, honor roll medals–and he sees Jackie catch it. She smiles as she crosses the room, perching on the arm of the chair next to the one he’s claimed. 

“If you want to insult me, pal, there are less rude ways.” She swings her leg enough to tap his knee with her toes, not anywhere near hard enough to hurt. 

“What?” He asks, tilting his head slightly, genuinely confused. 

“You didn’t like any of the food?” She clarifies, and he’s at least relieved that she doesn’t actually look insulted. “Saw your trays next to the food put out for the riffraff.” 

“Wow,” Shane says with a smile, “I’m going to tell everyone else you called them riffraff.” 

She snorts, unconcerned. 

“You do that, and I’ll tell them what you say when you’ve got a beer and a half in you. Trust me, that’s way fucking meaner.” 

Shane grins and tilts his head in acknowledgement before resting it back, really wishing she hadn’t noticed him not eating. 

“Someone investigated,” he says with a shrug. “I didn’t know if it was safe or not.” 

“Who?” Jackie demands, with a quality to her voice that says she’s ready to draw blood over it. “They know that’s your food.” 

“Why does that make me sound like a pet dog?” Shane teases.

“Nothing but the finest kibble for cap,” Jackie says with a playful little salute before she gets more serious. “You should have told me, though. I could have busted some heads together.” 

“You’re going to be my allergy enforcer?” Shane asks, amused, turning to face her better and bringing a leg up. He’s always liked Jackie, liked how easy it is to talk to her, the way she treated him from the start like he’d just always been here, a part of her family. He’s been teased before about being adopted as one of the Pikes, but sometimes he does feel like it was a version of that, like Hayden just looked at him and went, “Oh, there you are” and took him home. 

It’s nice, feeling like that. 

Especially these days. 

“Hell yeah,” Jackie agrees. “I handle bedtime for four kids every single night. You think I don’t know how to make people get their acts together?”

“Going to start putting hockey players in timeout for touching pasta salad that isn’t theirs?” 

“Damn right.” Jackie seems to remember something then, groaning and sliding back until she lands on the seat of the chair with a bounce, her legs hanging over the arm with her knees hooked over. “Man, that sucks. I was really excited for you to try that. The new dressing for it turned out really, really good.”  

“Sorry,” he says with a shrug, getting Jackie kicking the air in his direction in response. 

“No sorries from you, or I’ll beat you up,” she threatens, making him grin. “So you didn’t get anything to eat?” She asks, sounding upset about it in a way that almost makes him get himself in trouble apologizing again. 

“It’s fine, Jacks, I-” 

“It’s not fine,” she corrects. She swings her legs down and starts to stand. “I’ll go make you something. I think we still have more of that pasta you like, and I think-” 

He catches her arm gently before she gets far, pulling her to a stop. 

“Don’t,” he asks. “Please.” 

“You’re going to ruin my reputation with the WAGs, Shane. One stomach growl and it’ll get out that I’m starving Cap. I’m going to lose all of my street cred in the group chat.” 

“The group chat you hate anyway?” He asks, amused. He’s been here enough times to hear a wine-spritzer-tipsy Jackie–affectionately referred to as her alter-ego Wineda by Hayden, who takes great delight in egging her on after a drink or two–complain about it to know it’s true. As much as the attitude around him coming out might tend towards icy in the locker room, he knows louder, more direct opinions come out now and then in the WAGs chat. Even if Jackie won’t share the details about what gets said, he knows from how mad she gets that it isn’t good. 

As much fun as Wineda is, he can’t say he’s enjoyed her recent sessions. 

Jackie glances at the door like she’s making sure no one’s eavesdropping before she leans in slightly, keeping her voice low. 

“Veronica can go to hell, and I’ll tell her that to her face,” she says, fierce and loyal in a way that makes Shane’s throat feel a little tight. “Christa and Mary Grace, too.” 

“It’s not good to have in-fighting in the team,” Shane chides, but there’s no heat in it. “I can handle it.” 

“So can I,” Jackie says fiercely. “Hand me a stick and set me loose one day and watch how well I can handle it.” 

Shane smiles, glancing down when Jackie glides her arm up in his loose hold until she can squeeze his hand gently with hers. 

He squeezes back. 

“You think they did it on purpose?” She asks, eyes searching his face. 

He hesitates. It’s dawned on him since it happened, the idea that someone helped themselves to his food because it’s his food. He’s tried not to think about it, not to let himself downward spiral into the idea that someone would do that. He doesn’t want to mistrust his team like that, doesn’t want to think that someone might dislike him enough to actively fuck with his food just to get back at him in some silent, pointed way. 

(...but it was a contributing factor in him choosing not to eat it, whether he wanted to admit that to himself or not.) 

“You want Hayden to say something?” Jackie offers, voice soft in a way that tells him she already knows what the answer is going to be. 

“It’ll just make it worse,” they say in unison. 

Jackie squeezes his hand again. 

“Motherfuckers,” she offers, and Shane huffs a laugh. 

“Swear jar.” 

“Fucking assholes,” Jackie adds. 

“Three times,” Shane says. “I’d say I’m going to tell Hayden on you, but he’d probably just be into that, and you already said you’re set on not having a fifth.” 

“How thoughtful,” Jackie says dryly before she softens. “I don’t like you leaving my house hungry.” 

Absurdly, it makes Shane’s throat feel a little scratchy. 

“I’m not a starving orphan, Jacks,” he jokes. “I think I’ll survive dinner being a little late.” 

“You shouldn’t have to,” Jackie says, and Shane looks away, unable to withstand the anger in her eyes, even when he knows it’s direct for him, not at him. It’s the elephant in the room they’ve all been ignoring with various degrees of success: his team is splintering because of him, and he has no fucking idea what to do about it. 

“They’re adjusting,” he says, the thing he’s been telling Hayden and JJ and Jackie and Rose and himself. He can feel their pity in the brief silence that always happens after he says it. 

It’s the reason he’s so carefully never let it need to be said with Ilya, who has enough to carry without ending up with Shane’s shit, too. 

“They shouldn’t have to adjust,” Jackie says, and Shane looks up and feels a little flicker of alarm when her eyes look shinier than they should. He knows by now that she’s an angry crier, not a sad crier, but that doesn’t make the idea of her crying sit any better. 

“Jacks-” 

“I know, I know,” she says, squeezing his hand before she shakes her head and wipes her other arm across her eyes. “I’m being a mama bear, and you’re a grown man and don’t need me to fight your battles for you.” 

“Save it for Brendan Pattinson, mama bear,” Shane offers in a joke to break the tension, and Jackie makes an annoyed noise, shaking her head and glancing briefly skywards as if in supplication for divine aid in dealing with annoying kids with a habit of yanking ponytails. 

“One more day of Jade coming home saying he fucked with her again, and I’m letting her set Ruby loose on him on the playground.” She shakes her head once more before she focuses back on Shane. “And enough distracting me with grudges I have against second graders.” Shane snorts. “I’ve got grudges with grown ups, too.” 

“You don’t have to-” 

“What do you not have to do?” 

Shane tilts his head back around the edge of the chair to see Hayden at the door. 

“Damn,” Hayden says, pushing the door half-shut behind himself when he enters, “are we doing a VIP room thing? I didn’t make the cut?” 

“Cool people only, buddy, sorry,” Shane says, grinning when it makes Hayden roll his eyes. 

“What are we meeting about?” Hayden asks, leaning against the back of the chair. 

“Someone fucked with Shane’s food,” Jackie says before Shane can stop her. 

“What?” Hayden asks, looking down at him. “Why didn’t you say something? I would have-” 

“Can we just, like, not make this a thing?” Shane asks, already feeling tired at the idea, at the prospect of this being yet one more thing for people to hold against him, delicate Captain Hollander who can’t even handle other people trying his special diet food. There’s no world in which he doesn’t end up looking like a dick if he makes a big deal out of this. 

“It is a thing,” Hayden protests. “That’s not cool, dude, they shouldn’t-” 

“Someone just tried it, Hayd,” Shane says. “Okay? That’s all. I just didn’t know what utensils they’d used, and I didn’t want to risk it. I made it a thing, not them.” 

Hayden and Jackie share a glance over his head that’s deeply annoying in the way it’s very obviously a silent conversation about him. 

“Also I think both of you sneaking off during a party at your own house makes you guys really shitty hosts.” 

“Swear jar,” Hayden and Jackie say at once, immediately giving each other a lovey dovey look at the synchronicity that Shane makes a gagging noise at just to make it stop, getting a kick to his ankle and a light swat to his ear for it. 

“Go be gross somewhere else,” Shane complains. 

“It’s my house,” Hayden says. “I get to be gross anywhere I want.” 

“Remind me why I come over here so often?” Shane asks the room at large. 

“Because Jackie’s a kick ass cook and you like losing Monopoly to eight year olds,” Hayden says. 

“Really getting harder to remember by the second,” Shane says dryly. 

*

Shane manages to convince Hayden and Jackie not to make a thing out of the food, and he even does his time mingling for the rest of the party, though he’s shooed off before he finishes helping clean up, Jackie insisting he go home and eat if she can’t convince him to let her make him something. 

He decides not to argue. 

He has his phone in hand when he gets home to let Hayden and Jackie know he made it when it buzzes with a text from Lily, and he makes himself send Made it home. to the Pikes & Associate group chat Hayden first made years ago before he opens his thread with Ilya. 

you are still at barbecue? or are you dead from boredom because you have to listen to pike for three hours? 

Just got home. 

so you survived pike being boring? congratulations. 

Despite himself, Shane can’t help but smile slightly. Things between Ilya and Hayden have gotten a little less actively hostile since the first dinner they shared together, but they both seem to get a strange amount of satisfaction out of bickering with each other for sport. Shane mostly just chooses to stay out of it. 

I thought you like boring. 

you boring, yes. pike boring? no. 

What’s the difference? 

besides the fact i am only sleeping with one of you? 

Shane snorts. 

enough talk about pike. i am falling asleep from boredom. 

Sure that’s not just from six days on a roadie to the west coast? 

no, i am too strong. jetlag cannot catch me. 

Like your ass didn’t pass the fuck out on my couch last month, you liar. 

like i didn’t make it up to you later 😘

was the party nice? 

Shane hesitates. He doesn’t want to lie, but he also doesn’t know how to even begin to get into what parties with his team tend to feel like these days without also getting into the careful game of omission he’s been playing this season whenever the topic of team dynamics comes up. Ilya has enough to do with adjusting to a team that isn’t at the level he’s been used to playing on. He doesn’t need Shane whining that his own team is now giving him the cold shoulder sometimes because they apparently think gay is socially contagious. 

Even though Ilya is the person Shane most wants to tell, purely because he knows Ilya would be on his side even without any background information. 

It was good. I beat Hayden at cornhole. 

that does not sound like a real thing that exists

It’s a game. You throw beanbags at a board and try to get them through the holes. It’s fun. 

maybe if you are also a person who finds watching grass growing exciting 

well, you do 

nevermind 

will you be able to sleep tonight, or will you still be too excited? 

You’re such an asshole. 

Next time we have dinner over there, we’ll play and I’ll show you. 

you will make me be nice to pike AND play boring old person game???? hollander, i thought you loved me. 

I mean I love you a little less with each text soooooooooo

i will keep this in mind the next time you are begging to cum, i think. 

we will see how much you feel like you love me then

Shane wonders if he should use this chance to start shifting things over to sexting or maybe even some video call sex. It’s been a couple of days since they’ve gotten the chance since Ilya’s been on the road, after all, and even with the benefit of his toy collection–almost comically large as it is courtesy of his boyfriend–he’s missed him in ways beyond just emotional. He is hungry, though, and he hates going to bed too full, so if he-

was the food good at least??

jackie said she was excited for new pasta salad recipe she was trying out 

Shane frowns. 

You text Jackie? 

Wait, you text Jackie about me? 

sometimes 

one day i will convince her to come to her senses and leave pike 

until then, she knows many shane recipes 

very helpful 

Shane is torn between fondness and annoyance at the idea of people talking about him like this, Ilya and Jackie trading recipes like he’s a fussy kid refusing to eat broccoli. 

Don’t bother Jackie. 

she texted me first, hollander

and yet you accuse ME???? rude

What did she text you about? 

about private jackie and lily topics

don’t be nosy

very unattractive 

Shane rolls his eyes. 

What? Like you guys have so much in common?

well we both like men

her taste is obviously very bad, but 🤷

Texting about hot guys, huh? 

well, mainly one hot guy 😏

Shane smiles, unable to help it. 

chris hemsworth shirtless in that new movie?? 👌👌👌👌

Shane’s smile drops. 

stop distracting me 

pasta salad: good or no? 

she sent me the recipe. I can make it next time you are over here if you like it. 

Shane hesitates, once again torn between lying and not being a shitty boyfriend and burdening Ilya with his own stupid problems. If Ilya and Jackie are apparently trading recipes and talking about him (?), it’s not impossible that what happened at the barbeque will come up at some point, especially if he follows up about the pasta salad that’s apparently supposed to be so delicious. 

Not that Shane would know. 

Someone else got into it by mistake before I tried it. 

It still doesn’t feel quite right, bending the truth like this, but he also doesn’t know what else to do. 

damn, too bad 

Shane feels a strange disappointment at being believed so easily. 

there is still chicken and that fluffy stuff from last time in your freezer unless you ate it if you are hungry 

Shane is torn between affection at the thoughtfulness and annoyance at being managed like he’s not an adult who can take care of himself and figure out his own dinner. 

Couscous? 

maybe 🤷

I don’t remember the word

the fluffy things you put raisins in

because you are very, very sick in the head 

Raisins are good, and the recipe said to put them in. 

the recipe is not the boss of you, hollander 

you do not have to ruin perfectly good food with raisins just because clara of clara’s allergy kitchen tells you to

Shane checks the freezer and finds the meal in question. He’d forgotten about it, honestly, and he’s impressed that Ilya remembered. He pulls the lid off and puts it in the microwave, leaning back against the counter while it heats up. 

And yet someone ate almost all of the cookies with raisins in them that my dad sent with you when you came over here last time. 

Remind me who did that? 

quality control 😇

Shane shakes his head, smiling even as he rolls his eyes. 

you are microwaving sad sad raisin meal? 

Yes. Why? 

my food just got here 

want to video call and eat together? 

So you can heckle my raisins? 

i mean i am going to do this anyway…

at least on video call you will have a very handsome boyfriend to look at 

When the call comes through, Shane swipes accept. 

He does get heckled for the raisins in his couscous, but it is nice, not eating alone. 

Even if only over video call. 

V.

With as many players as there are in the NHL, Shane is sometimes amused by what a small world it is. 

Especially when it leads to things like this, a wedding he and Ilya have both ended up at, Shane because the groom played on Montreal for a season and Ilya because they played on the same All Stars team once. 

Even with the Irina Foundation, he and Ilya have still been sat at different tables, and Shane is trying not to feel wistful about it. Ilya at least has a couple of Ottawa players with him, and Shane is with JJ and Hayden and Jackie, but he can’t help the way he wishes they could all be at the same table together, wishes he hadn’t gotten a wink from the wedding planner who had directed him to this table and teasingly assured him that Hollander and Rozanov had been put apart on purpose, just in case. It was a joke. He knows it was a joke. 

But it’s also a joke that means he can’t even sit next to his boyfriend. 

Given how catering usually goes at things like this, he hadn’t bothered asking for an allergy exemption, pushing food around his plate and passing a lot of it off on Hayden and JJ while promising he’d save his dessert for Jackie. He gets lucky with some sealed bags of potato chips from the after-dinner snacks table, and he catches Ilya’s eye when he wanders over as well, grabbing a bag and glancing at the label on the back casually before he leans against a pillar nearby, far enough that they could ostensibly be ignoring each other but close enough that it almost feels like companionship. 

“Having fun?” Ilya asks casually, and Shane is made painfully aware of the fact that even this semi-privacy isn’t really private when a couple of people in front of them half-turn to see if they’re being addressed before they face forward again. 

“Not as much as you,” Shane says with a raised eyebrow. It’s true, after all. Ilya’s always at his best with an audience, and that certainly hasn’t changed tonight. He hasn’t actually been drinking that much–he mentioned before that he’d offered to DD given how far out the venue is and what a pain getting an Uber would be–but he’s still clearly been enjoying himself, dancing with anyone who’ll take him up on it, though most of the night has been spent with Svetlana, who came as his plus-one. 

Shane has been trying very hard not to be jealous of that. 

He is…kind of succeeding.

“You are drinking tonight, though,” Ilya observes. “Very wild, Hollander. You are having a party stage?” 

“You keeping track of my drinks, Rozanov?” Shane shoots back. It is true. For the sake of relaxing some around so many strangers, he has let himself be talked into a couple of drinks, taking a shot with Jackie and then nursing a vodka and ginger ale, heavy enough on the latter that he hasn’t really been able to taste the former. The bar tender had suggested a Moscow Mule when he’d asked for just a drink and mixer, but he’d known Ilya would be delighted enough by it that Shane would hear about it for weeks after, so he’d resisted. 

Now, though, he kind of wishes he hadn’t, wishes he’d had the forethought to give Ilya something to tease him about that might let them segway into the “former enemies becoming buddies” storyline they’ve worked on pushing. 

“Just making sure you don’t get yourself into trouble,” Ilya says with an easy shrug. He hadn’t bothered with a tie, and his jacket is long-discarded, his shirt absolutely a couple of buttons looser than when he arrived. 

Shane wants to put his tongue on the stretch of chest and upper stomach that it reveals so much that he makes himself look away, picking up his drink to take another sip. From the way he can feel Ilya smirking at him, he has the feeling the urge has been communicated anyway. 

“Found anyone to take home tonight?” Ilya asks casually, leaning against the pillar more and crossing one foot over the other, the picture of elegant dishevelment. 

“Don’t know,” Shane says, deciding to play along. “I have someone in mind, but I don’t know if she’ll go for it.” 

“Oh?” Ilya asks, feigning surprise. “Who’s the lucky girl?” 

“I don’t know if you’d know her,” Shane says. “She’s from Boston, but I don’t know if you’d have run into her or not.” 

“Is possible,” Ilya says. “Boston is not so big. What’s her name?” 

“Lily.” 

He doesn’t miss the little flicker of an actual smile cross Ilya’s face before he gets himself back together enough to keep playing. 

“Lily, Lily, Lily,” Ilya repeats, like he’s thinking about it. “The name is familiar, I think. Maybe if you describe her to me, it will jog my memory.” 

“Well,” Shane starts, trying to decide if he wants to turn Ilya on or rile him up. 

Or both. 

“She’s-” 

“Hollzy!” 

He looks up when JJ calls his name, making his slightly-unsteady way towards them and then looping an arm around his shoulders, jostling him lightly. 

“There you are! C’mon, we’re doing pictures.” 

“I’m-” 

“Getting your ass into these pictures, Hollander,” JJ says, already tugging him into motion. “You have to get over Landry sometime. C’mon. We’ll get some sexy pictures you can use for Tinder.” 

“I’m not on Tinder,” Shane grumbles, but he lets himself get pulled away, no matter how much he doesn’t want to leave. 

After all, as far as everyone here but Hayden and Jackie knows, he doesn’t have a good excuse to stay. 

*

He tolerates a good thirty minutes of posing and being posed before he makes his escape, slipping away when JJ and Hayden are digging through the box of props next to the photobooth and getting a wink from Jackie, who sees him slipping off but lets him do it anyway. He passes some time lingering around the edges of the garden they’re in, catching peeks at the dancefloor and trying not to look like he’s looking for a specific person at the center. So busy trying to find Ilya after he sees Svetlana, he almost jumps when his phone vibrates with a text. When he pulls his phone out of his pocket, he sees it’s from Lily. 

parking lot. 

Shane immediately makes a guess about exactly what might be planned with such a cryptic instruction, and he would like to say he’s less immediately tempted than he is. 

Still, his buzz has faded at this point, and it makes caution more present than it might otherwise be. 

Not here. 

??

We can’t have car sex here. There’s too many people. 

car sex??? who mentioned car sex?? 🤨

wow wow, i am dating a pervert 

Shane makes a face at his phone. 

come to the parking lot 

not for sex

well, maybe some later 😏

but come here first not for sex 

if you are capable of this 

Shane’s tempted to put his phone back in his pocket and just ignore him. 

But he’s also moving towards the parking lot even before he finishes thinking about it. 

*

“Jesus,” he complains when he finally makes it to Ilya, who apparently decided to park as close to Timbuktu as possible. “You made Svetlana walk all of this in heels?” 

Ilya, sitting casually in the trunk of his SUV with the hatch open, shrugs. 

“I promised I would give her piggy back ride back at the end of the night.” 

Shane doesn’t let himself think about that long enough to get jealous, reminding himself that he’s given Jackie a piggy back ride one night when Hayden was as drunk as she was but Jackie’s heel broke halfway back to the parking garage. 

Still, the reassurance of it feels nice when Ilya shifts over some and pats the empty space next to him. 

“Did you call me out here to kill me without witnesses?” Shane asks, sitting down and glancing around to see if there are witnesses. Predictably when they’re this far out, there isn’t, just him and Ilya in a dark corner of a parking lot on a warm night. It’s not the most romantic setting in the world. 

But it still feels nice. 

“I called you out here because you’re probably as hungry as I am,” Ilya says, holding onto Shane’s shoulder for balance as he leans backwards and drags something forward. A small cooler, Shane sees, when Ilya releases him and he turns to look at it. Ilya pops the top open and pulls out an aluminum-foil wrapped bundle. “Here.” 

Shane takes it. 

“What’s this?” 

“Yes, is a mystery what the sandwich-shaped thing I am pulling out of a cooler could be,” Ilya says dryly, giving him a look as he pulls one out for himself. “You have had more to drink tonight? Or this is head trauma talking?” 

“Asshole,” Shane says, even though he’s oddly touched by the gesture. He’d brought a couple of protein bars in the car with him, but he hadn’t bothered with anything more complex than that, unwilling to go through the fuss when he knew it would mean sneaking out to the car to eat alone. 

He hadn’t thought about the possibility of someone sneaking out to eat with him. 

“You brought sandwiches?” He asks, unwrapping his and finding chicken salad with chopped apples and grapes waiting for him. His favorite. 

“Mm,” Ilya agrees, his mouth full. He chews and swallows before answering. “You said the catering person asked you if almonds ‘count’ as treenuts.” Ilya gives him a wry look. “I figured you probably weren’t going to trust them.” 

“And you made sandwiches?” Shane asks, feeling absurdly emotional about it, the idea of Ilya hearing him mention that in passing and then go through the effort of making and bringing sandwiches because he guessed correctly that Shane wouldn’t take the risk of eating food here. 

“Well,” Ilya says dryly, “the Beef Wellington wasn’t ready in time.” 

Shane snorts, finally taking a bite of his sandwich. It’s delicious, of course, because Ilya is annoyingly really good at cooking, something he’s both aware of and smug about. 

“How do you know about Beef Wellington?” Shane challenges. 

“David and I already have many plans for Christmas,” Ilya says cryptically. “Is good?” He asks, nodding at Shane’s sandwich. 

“Yeah,” Shane says, covering his mouth when he speaks and accepting the ginger ale Ilya hands him from the cooler. 

“Good,” Ilya says, sounding genuinely content as he shifts enough to lean his shoulder against the side of the car. 

It’s not the most romantic setting in the world, cold–and admittedly a little squished–sandwiches eaten while sitting in the back of an SUV in a dark parking lot while batting away bugs now and then, but with the warm night and the faint strains of music making it all the way out to where they are, it feels good, still. 

Everything with Ilya usually does. 

1.

He’s laughing with everyone else at Haas scrambling to try and drink his beer before it spills over–courtesy of a playful tap to the top of the bottle from Hayes just to make it bubble up–when he feels the first telltale scratch in his throat. Immediately, his laughter stops, and he feels the sobering little wriggle of please no shoot through him. Everyone else is still amused watching Haas try to chug without choking, and Shane takes a sip of his ginger ale to try and clear the sensation that refuses to stop. His throat’s just dry. That’s all. They’re back in Ottawa after a roadie, and that much time in a plane just made his throat feel a little scratchy from the dry air. That’s all. 

Still, he glances down at the table, trying to work out what the fuck could possibly have been hiding a contaminant. 

Not that he’s having a reaction. 

He refuses. 

They’ve been to this restaurant before, a few times, in fact, and they’d had a new waitress today, but he’d let Ilya hand over the annoying laminated card he told Shane’s mom about before he told Shane to make sure he’d have backup in it being a good idea enough to bully Shane into agreeing. His allergies are known here. Everything on the table is safe. Should be safe. Is safe. 

Has to be safe. 

He feels Ilya’s eyes on him before he feels a tap of their shoes together. 

“Okay?” Ilya asks, voice low, attuned to him in a way that’s usually nice but currently extremely inconvenient when Shane is busy telling himself that he’s not experiencing the thing he’s experiencing right now. 

He feels the urge to cough. 

It comes out in a wheeze, and he can’t quite catch his breath afterwards, can’t suck in enough air to fill his lungs back up. 

“Hollz?” He hears someone ask, but he can’t even think straight to sort out who it is, nor can he hear the other curious voices that follow. 

He’s nodding even before Ilya asks “Reaction?”

“Okay,” Ilya says, and if Shane wasn’t feeling the growing certainty that he’s about to die–sense of impending doom, his brain offers, not that having a name for the symptom does anything for the way it feels–he might be able to feel something about the fact that he can hear how much effort Ilya is putting into staying calm. “You’re okay.” 

Shane absolutely is fucking not okay, but he also doesn’t have enough air to breathe, let alone to argue. 

He means to make a noise of annoyance when Ilya tries to start patting the pockets of his jacket at the same moment he does, but it comes out a tight, thin wheeze as he shoves his husband’s hands out of his way. Auvi-Q. In his pocket. Get the Auvi-Q. Take the cover off. He knows what to do. He’s done it before. He’s-

He can’t feel his Auvi-Q. 

“Fuck,” he means to say but mostly mouths, all but ripping his jacket off, like a new angle to access his pocket from will make it magically be there. He thinks he makes a noise he doesn’t mean to when his arms tangle in the jacket, and he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe-

It sends a sting shooting through his shoulder when it yanks it at a bad angle when someone–Ilya, Shane thinks, the one most likely to touch him right now, and the only one whose touch wouldn’t be wildly unwelcome right now–but he doesn’t have time to think about it. From the corner of his eye, he can see Ilya looking through the pockets now, grim-faced and determined, and in a distant, mildly hysterical part of his mind, he wonders if Ilya regrets what he picked out for Shane’s outfit now, tossing him the jacket before they left and ignoring his comment about not needing a jacket when it’s this warm outside. 

Right now, Shane just feels cold.

He closes his eyes and squeezes his hands hard around the edge of the table, trying to pull breath in through a throat swollen so tight and also trying to will back how he can feel his stomach roll in a way that has his mouth watering in a way that says there’s a good chance that whatever caused this is about to make a reappearance, or at least try to. 

If he wasn’t currently occupied by the feeling of his body shutting down on him, he might be able to feel embarrassed about it. As it is, he just squeezes the table harder, like that’ll help him out here. 

He flinches when a hand lands on his shoulder on the side that isn’t facing Ilya, knowing it’s not his husband touching him, and he hears Ilya say a terse, “No, don’t touch,” that he wishes he could say thank you for when it immediately makes the hand let go. There’s a hand on his back now that’s familiar, and he knows it’s Ilya leaning in towards him even before he hears his voice. 

“Sweetheart, it’s not in your jacket. Did you bring it with you?” 

Shane nods his head automatically because of course he did. Even if he didn’t always bring it on his own, Ilya is annoying about always asking before they leave. 

But…but what if he didn’t? What if he just thought he did? He thinks he has the sense memory of it, but what if him rolling his eyes at Ilya asking did make him forget, what if-

“Car?” He manages to offer up. Maybe it fell out of his pocket on the way here? 

Please let it just have-

He flinches slightly at the screeching sound of metal on concrete, and he opens his eyes just long enough to register dizzily that shapes of people have moved to make a wall at the other end of the table, blocking direct line of sight to him in the corner. That’s nice, maybe. He wishes he had the space to decide. 

“Okay, I’m going to-” Ilya starts to say, moving to get up, and without thinking, Shane’s hand flies out, grabbing his wrist. 

Please no, he thinks, automatically. Don’t leave. Please. Stay. 

It’s not logical. He knows that. Ilya is just going to the car. That’s all. Ilya’s just going to-

He has a sudden, clear mental image of Ilya rushing back into the restaurant only to find him dead on the ground, and once he’s thought it, he can’t make it go away. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Ilya says, and then there’s an arm around him, tugging him a little closer. Shane shuts his eyes again, fighting for each breath. Ilya is speaking again, but it’s over his head, so Shane thinks he’s fine to tune it out. 

Even if he isn’t, he’s not sure he actually has control over it. 

There’s the sound of keys and then the sound of people pushing away from the table. 

“Okay,” Ilya’s voice says in his ear, low and clearly trying to sound soothing, “okay, okay, they’re going to get it out of the car, okay? You’re fine. You’re okay.” He breaks off into a stream of Russian that Shane doesn’t bother to translate, too busy trying to focus on the dual goals of breathing and not puking. 

He can feel his head go dizzy and light, and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears now, too fast and fucking loud, doing nothing to calm him down with the way it’s competing with the way his ears are ringing. He lets go of the table with one hand and drops it blindly, thankfully finding Ilya’s knee beneath his palm and squeezing, harder than he means to, honestly. He’s not trying to hurt him, but he needs the security of it, needs the familiar warmth of Ilya right now, needs-

“Got it!” Someone–Bood?–says too loud, and then Ilya is leaning over him before sitting back. 

Shane forces a breath that turns half into a gag. 

“-bulance,” he hears Ilya say, but his voice sounds more distant now, like there’s cotton in Shane’s ears. “-no-yes, call-” 

The sound of something plastic hitting the table, a hand on his leg pulling it to the side and turning it slightly, and the familiar pinch-pain of a needle in the side of his thigh, the shape of the Auvi-Q held tightly against him as the countdown starts. 

“Okay,” Ilya’s voice says, tight and strained but low, quiet, close to Shane’s ear. “Okay. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.” 

Shane doesn’t necessarily agree, but with the immediate rush of relief of knowing that epinephrine is on its way in his bloodstream, he doesn’t have it in him to argue. 

*

Once able to breathe again, he’s able to argue his ability to meet the ambulance in the parking lot, and if Ilya ends up taking most of his weight even to stand up with how shaky he feels, his husband thankfully doesn’t mention it. 

“Sorry, guys,” he says to the table in general, still a little breathless, squeezing Ilya’s arm in a silent signal to give him a second and let him get his feet under him before they start moving. 

“All good, Hollzy,” Dykstra says. 

“Yeah, man,” Bood adds. “But if you didn’t like the nachos, you could have just said you didn’t want any.” 

Startled, Shane laughs, which just makes him cough, chest still feeling a little starved of oxygen. 

“Yes, yes,” Ilya says, clearly not in a mood for humor as he starts maneuvering them past the chairs. “Very funny. Everyone is fucking comedian.” 

“Had to get out of…paying the bill somehow…” Shane manages. 

Everyone at the table laughs. Ilya makes a noise of disgust, but his hold on Shane remains gentle. 

*

“You don’t have to-” He starts to say when they’re out of the restaurant and he’s been lowered carefully to a bench, but the look Ilya gives him says he already knows how the sentence is going to end. 

And that he doesn’t agree with it. 

“You can go finish dinner with everyone,” Shane persists. With the ability to breathe again, he can’t help the creeping sense of fucking things up for everyone because of his own weaknesses. They’d been having fun. Ilya had been having fun. It’s not fair that it should all get ruined when-

“If you really think I am letting you go to a hospital by yourself so I can finish eating lukewarm fries and listening to Haas defend his poster choices, you must have also hit your head,” Ilya says dryly, sitting down next to him. 

When Shane is tugged towards him lightly, he only glances around briefly before obeying, resting his head on his shoulder, feeling shaky and drained. 

“Oh fuck,” Shane says after a moment, and he feels Ilya start to stand, clearly afraid something is wrong. “The car. Who’s going to-” 

“Jesus, Hollander,” Ilya complains, relaxing again. “Do not just suddenly gasp about things right now.” 

“But the car-” 

“Will go home tonight. Dillon and Holmberg carpooled here. Dillon will drive it back and then Holmberg can drive him from our house. Simple. Don’t gasp about it, please.” 

“But they live in the opposite direction of us,” Shane points out, which he knows from going on house tours with Holmberg when he purchased one earlier in the year, something that Ilya had teased him for but that he had thoroughly enjoyed. “That’s out of the-” 

He stops when gentle fingers rest over his mouth lightly. 

“They don’t care,” Ilya says, the arm he has around Shane moving up to brush strands of hair back from his face where they’ve escaped the elastic he has his hair gathered in. “And even if they did, we are the bosses of the team. They have to listen and do what we say or we will kick them out.” 

“Not how captaincy wor-” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Ilya interrupts, sounding fond. “But is fine, Shane. Don’t worry about it. No one cares.” 

“But-” 

“You are very bad at being a sick person,” Ilya interrupts. “So much talking.” 

Shane elbows him lightly. 

“I don’t want it to be a thing,” he says softly. “I already fucked up team dinner. I don’t want everyone else having more to do because of my shit.” 

“Hm,” Ilya hums, and Shane feels pressure against his head when Ilya kisses his hair. Unable to help it, he looks around at once to see if anyone saw it, but the parking lot seems empty besides a few pigeons pecking around. “This is what teams are for, yes? Is not just about making the babies do bagskates until they cry because you are a bully.” 

“It’s not bullying,” Shane says at once. “It’s good for their stamina to-” He feels the movement of Ilya laughing at him and elbows him once more. “I hate you.” 

“No you don’t,” Ilya corrects, sounding smug. 

Shane smiles faintly, pressing his cheek against his shoulder a little tighter. 

“No I don’t.” 

*

Shane wakes in a hospital bed after not knowing he was falling asleep to find the room dark. He can hear quiet talking on the other side of the curtain–it was someone with their grandma earlier, he thinks, before the doctor had tugged the curtain shut–but the lights are low, the medical equipment the brightest thing in the room. For a moment, he just takes a second to fully get himself back online. He doesn’t think he was laying down before, but he’s fully horizontal now, the blanket pulled up over his chest. 

He can make a pretty safe guess about who exactly might have made that happen, and he wriggles to sit up a bit so he can look around and confirm his suspicions. 

Shane can’t help but smile, wishing desperately that his phone was in his hand and not–thoughtfully–plugged in to charge, tragically all the way across the room. Ilya has slumped down in the visitor chair until his head is hanging over the back of it, mouth slightly open, hands clasped with interlocked fingers resting over his stomach, and he looks uncannily like Shane’s dad when he’s “resting his eyes.” Light glints off of the wedding band on his hand when it rises and falls with his breathing, and Shane automatically touches his thumb to his own ring, rubbing over the warm metal idly. It’s a fidget they’re both prone to, something that’s been captured in more than a few fan videos, clip after clip of them rolling their bands around their fingers, sliding them back and forth, Shane even once flipping his around his fingers like a coin trick that had strangely been received like a thirst trap by the internet, something that Ilya had been playfully annoyed about. There’s even multiple videos of them making themselves flinch after accidentally snapping their silicone bands while fucking with them when waiting on the bench during games, usually followed by the other openly laughing at them. After enough repetitions and thanks to the fact they wear the same ring size, they’d eventually just bought a big bag of replacements, trading sentimentality for efficiency. It’s a variety pack with glitter in it because Ilya thinks he’s funny and Shane stupidly let him pick what to buy without clearing it first, and Shane’s done his time wearing pink and purple and yellow silicone until he snaps it from mindlessly tugging on it. 

(And if the pink one had just happened to meet an earlier death than usual, Shane maintains it was completely an accident.) 

(Ilya had doubted his story, but he’d also been paid off with a blowjob later to suspend his disbelief, so. All’s well that ends well.) 

He watches Ilya blink himself awake slowly, like he sensed Shane being awake and needed to join him. He’s beautiful all the time, but Shane wishes sometimes that he could draw like Haas, just so he could capture this exact moment, when his husband is still soft and hazy and half-aware. He sometimes feels the irrational urge to cover him with a blanket or a jacket, especially when they’re on the bus or the plane, when other people are around to witness the way he looks in early mornings and late nights. It’s private, this Ilya, only for his eyes, for soft moments that still sometimes feel stolen even this many years in.

Shane’s chest almost hurts with how much he loves him. 

“Hey,” Ilya says, sitting up at once like he doesn’t have the crick in his neck that Shane knows has to be there from sleeping in a chair like that. He closes his eyes and leans into it when Ilya brushes the backs of his fingers gently over his cheek. Shane thinks, amused, that he’s pretty sure he only gets touched in this specific way in a hospital bed. 

“Hey,” he says back when Ilya’s hand drops just far enough to take hold of Shane’s, thumb rubbing gently along his own. He opens his eyes and yawns through a deep breath. He always forgets how tired he is after a reaction until he experiences it again. 

“Hey,” Ilya says again, now smiling slightly, like Shane’s made him happy just by being awake. “Your parents know and say they hope you feel better and to let them know if we need anything, your dad stopped by to let Anya out, doesn't look like anyone took any videos or pictures at the restaurant, medical knows you’ll be on reserve until Thursday, and you can leave in,” he leans back, craning his head to look at a clock on the wall before he sits forward again, “about another hour.” 

Shane huffs out a quiet laugh, all of his questions answered in the order he was going to ask them in. Being married really does have its benefits. He uses his hold on Ilya’s hand to tug him forward, and his silent request is heeded, Ilya standing up just enough to lean over and kiss him. 

Shane pulls back mid-kiss to yawn against his mouth, and Ilya laughs, sitting back down. 

“So rude,” he teases. “I come and sit in this hospital room for hours with you, and you are saying you are bored with me now?” 

“Hm,” Shane says, closing his eyes again. “I’m probably due for a new model by now. I already know all of this one’s tricks.” 

“Mean to me,” Ilya complains playfully, reaching up to tug at a strand of Shane’s hair before letting go. “And ungrateful. You like all of my tricks.” 

Shane lifts his free hand enough to make a “meh” gesture, grinning when the back of it is popped lightly in reprimand. He drops it back to the bed and opens his eyes again. 

“Sorry,” he says, and Ilya makes a dismissive noise. 

“No sorries,” he says. “Is not your fault.” 

“Still. Shitty way to celebrate being back home.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says, with a half-shrug. “Good excuse to keep my very beautiful husband in bed for several days. I am not seeing the problem.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees dryly. “Because nothing is sexier than sleeping off anaphylaxis.” 

“Is true,” Ilya says. “Now you know why I married you.” 

“Asshole,” Shane says with a smile. “Like you weren’t-”

They both look over to the edge of the curtain when there’s a knock against the wall, a doctor poking her head around and smiling when she sees he’s awake. The way he always is, Shane is immediately aware of the fact that he’s still holding Ilya’s hand, and he feels the urge he always does to let go, like anyone who knows who they are doesn't know they’re married by now, an urge honed over a decade of secrecy. 

The way he’s been trying to make himself do more often, though, he doesn’t let go, doesn’t make a silent apology for something he’s not sorry for, doesn’t listen to the little voice in his head that says he and Ilya are only safe if they’re secret. 

They’ve spent enough time secret. 

When he squeezes Ilya’s hand, his husband squeezes back.